M.J. - Remember The Time

The Glastonbury festival wasn't properly underway when the news of Michael Jackson's death broke. There was no official announcement, just growing mutterings which many, myself included, dismissed as fabrication. Only days before, I had read that Cliff Richard is rumoured to have died every year, as a Glastonbury standard. I assumed this was a variation on the theme.

Only once I had wriggled into my sleeping bag (with little prospect of sleep given the hoard of drunkards surrounding me), did I receive a text repeating the allegation, followed by a call from Her Indoors, confirming that he'd had a heart attack and was definitely deceased.
Further confirmation arrived in text form from 8 a.m. on the Friday morning, when the first of half a dozen appalling jokes appeared, courtesy of Gloucester's premier barber and dodgy joke-merchant.

It was a surprise, of course, but barely a shock. Media speculation about Jackson's health had been rife for years and Ladbrokes had been taking bets on whether he'd ever make it onto the London stage. They paid out too.

As with most celebrity-related issues, one's view on Michael Jackson the man is informed only by the speculation of a media which can sell copy, advertising minutes or whatever on the back of scandal. At best, though, he was extraordinarily naive and/or badly advised in the conduct of his private life. It is certainly possible to share a bed with a child in all innocence, but if you're a D-list has-been, let alone one of the world' biggest stars, you can rely on someone trying to make a fast buck from selling a story, however innocent the truth. There is no way of assessing that innocence from suburban Gloucester. Suffice to say that he was never convicted of anything (although some accusations were settled out of court).

Michael Jackson the artist, by contrast, was and is public property, for us to analyze and celebrate 'til the cows come home. I saw him perform live twice, an experience which elevated my view of him as a mere pop star to concede that he was indeed special.

The first time at the old Wembley Stadium in 1988, still licking my wounds after the surprise departure of the first Mrs G. (no problem finding someone else who'd have her ticket!), I was in the mood for some light entertainment. And I was well and truly entertained. The moonwalk was literally unbelievable, to a point at which I had convinced myself that there was some unseen conveyor-belt device hidden in the stage! There wasn't.

He was promoting the Bad album, which I still prefer to the more popular Thriller. His voice was clear and all the "vibes" were positive. He knew how good he was and did everything to demonstrate it.

Fast forward a few years and we're back at Wembley for the Dangerous tour in 1992. The album had been a bit of a disappointment but on the strength of my previous encounter I was still hopeful that a breath-taking performance would be forthcoming. It was, but with significant reservations. On several occasions MJ feigned "collapse", freezing, between songs and even mid-song, as if he could no longer continue, inviting the audience to cheer him back into action. This was in addition to slow set and costume changes, far removed from the slickness shown four years earlier. I didn't buy it, and was quite bored with it by the end of the gig. The performance remained special but the attitude had deteriorated to a victim schtick which was unworthy of his talent.

Nevertheless, the second half of his adult life pretty much endorsed the portrait of the artist as misunderstood victim. While the last twenty years saw little "product" of note, his untimely exit, before the undignified milking spectacle that the imminent O2 series of concerts threatened, ensures that, with image so much the core of any pop career, his reputation will survive.

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Incidentally, only with his death have I realised that Michael Jackson was a few months older than me. How anybody, let alone someone with such a frail physique, could have hoped to perform fifty high-energy sets at anything approaching the standard which the public would expect of a man who they remember from videos made when he was half the age, is a mystery. That he was persuaded to try (by debtors, management or whoever) is as worthy of investigation as any witchhunt of his medical team.